Abuse for the Insignificant Nothing
by GayorNot5
Summary: The eyes were something he couldn't deny. And despite the freedom of self-harm, nothing prevented his succumbing to the feeling of insignificance. He was limited on options. He wasn't willing- wasn't prepared to feel insecure. He never wanted to be so utterly ashamed… Includes (Conan's) Anorexia and Self-Harm. (Surprise at the end of story)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - What is grasped

**Warning: This includes self-harm and vulgar thoughts. Proceed at your own accord.**

**\- Summary -**

**He trusts the "fact" that those burning eyes tell the truth since he couldn't deny it. And despite the freedom of self-harm, nothing prevented his succumbing to the feeling of having- **_**owning**_** nothing. He was limited on options. He didn't choose this. He wasn't willing to feel it at all. He wasn't prepared to feel insecure. He **_**never**_** wanted to be so utterly **_**ashamed**_**…**

* * *

Blue eyes towered over the limb, watching the scene intensively, as if focused solely on the task at hand, all doing so with blurred vision.

There was only the sound of skin tearing, opening and revealing itself to possible infections. This resulted in a certain and quite familiar substance of dark color spewing itself everywhere, creating countless droplets of splattering sounds falling onto the concrete floor.

The person responsible paid no mind to the burning pain, evidently concentrated on his own sense of obligation.

_Dig __farther_

He bit his lip in frustration, eyes lowering into a frown. He wasn't in the least bit satisfied with what the so-called "pathetic" and salient, steel tool provided him with. Whether it ranged from long, rigid strokes or deep and brief, infatuated jabs, they just weren't _enough._

This supposed distraction from the primary pain, the _other _pain wasn't turning out as well as he wished for it to be. It _never_ did. He tried all types of mechanisms; in what precedent, which opportunity, region, what implement to do it with, time, discernment and even miscellaneous concepts entirely (such as cleaning, writing and reading), but none seemed to be as sufficient of an answer to work. Although, in this case, considering this method had some sort of pursuance better than others, he continued to the routine without fear.

Even so, nothing changed how much it was ineffective rather than not.

_More_

A soft sob escaped him. He still felt it.

Those piercing eyes doing just that- piercing into him far worse and life-threatening than what he willed his actions to do. He felt so exposed, far too vulnerable as he listened to those very eyes that spoke an unspoken voice, a verifiable truth that didn't modify anything- it was loud enough to decipher, boisterous enough to perorate him.

"**You worthless bitch"**

The voice spat in a contemptuous manner, and no matter how many times it recapitulated the same line, instead of him adequately ignoring it, it gradually hurt him more and more.

The tones faltered into many. It ranged from female, male, child, adult, mature, and immature, but didn't matter. He heard it all. Every single one of those intonations screaming mayhem, showering with havoc as they watched him squirm and plead the world for him to shrink, no matter how inconspicuously ironic that was, it stood its ground.

But the world seemed to fight against him.

"**You're a whore, a good for nothing."**

Despite his deepest, aspiring wishes, how could he fight back? How many times was it going to tell him these allegations without any of his consent? How much longer will those heart-wrenching glares last- how much longer will he himself last? Their persistence drained him to the last drop, and yet they kept going and going and _going. _Why must they continue their endless nagging onto him when he already perceived and recognized the reality all too well? Why constantly reiterate when he already knew the extent of his self-worth? Why must they all keep their indefatigable blabbering going when it almost seemed pointless?

He just wanted an answer as to _why, _**why** must everyone yearn to break him and his lasting confidence?

"**Yer' disgustin'"**

What did he have to do, what exactly did it take for him to just up and walk away? What could he do to fend against- to avoid those glacial, yet sweltering hands from shoving him inside this pit of congregating tribulation. It wasn't one of darkness, quite the opposite as saturation of all colors looked to as swarm around him, but it was also completely empty. It was chaos within, an eternal loop of fears, failures and his hideous reflections. _It was lonely._

He should've understood more than anyone what and how he was, including how he appeared (seeing as mirrors did an efficient job at that), so why must it remind him?

He was both worn and exasperated at how much and how long he had to maintain his stare towards that huge, glass door that just _refused_ to open.

What did it take to look away…?!

"**You're despicable"**

_I know, so why won't it quit its chattering?!_

"**Better to have an enemy slap you on the face than a traitor who stabs in the back"**

_Stop it!_

"**Enemies are better than fake friends"**

_Shut your bloody mouth!_

"**You're far inferior to the worthlessness of the men in the world, and you must understand the poor shape this place is in"**

_Is there a need to explain? I'm not thinking otherwise! _

"**Any similarity between you and a human is purely coincidental."**

_I understand the magnitude!_

"**You're just... pediculus"**

_I won't deny it!_

"**I envy everyone you've never met"**

_I get it already…!_

"**To be yourself? What utter nonsense"**

_Leave me alone..._

"**You're the exact antonym for pleasant"**

_Why won't it quit…?!_

"**Only a self-destructive fool would consider your love an option"**

_Please, fall silent…_

"'**Important' my ass"**

_Just… stop…_

"**Yer' not beautiful"**

_Why must it wish to drain my lasting perseverance….?_

"**Never were, never will be"**

_I'm sorry….._

"**You're ****hideous****"**

_Believe me… I know._

Why won't it reason with him? Or was it him himself who refused to?

The process he was currently using proved his efforts. The metal ends that dug into his flesh brought a feeling- despite being so brief- of relief that brushed across his person.

The fact stood that with each mar that he dragged across his skin, a long-lasting scar would inevitably appear, and there wasn't a bit of regret lacing within his face. Those harsh cuts could be established and/or considered as a coat- no- a blanket, one that could be acted along the lines of protection against the ugliness he held. He'd be willing to drown his body in those very scars if it meant hiding his physique, especially since it could be described as nothing less but a horrendous monstrosity. A toxic barbarian that causes nothing but catastrophe and calamity that escapes from every direction; out and inside, looks and nature.

Plus, the course went as far as to make him feel free, even if it was short-lasting and below a second. All the regret, guilt, and sorrow that constantly overpowered and overwhelmed him would just momentarily cease and alter as if he had just paid a small debt at that abrupt moment. Those rather painless marks were permanent and, no less caused by him- would remind him of his grief, the responsibility he failed to fulfill, the very ones that crushed him into oblivion. They would forever be implanted into those streaks that, too, stayed on him until his last breaths. That reasoning brought him to the conclusion that this method he used could repay, if it's just a little bit, for all the harm he's done.

Even so, the very thought about never being able to escape the dread filled him both with grief and joy. Sure, he felt as though payment was a possibility, but it also pained him that he'll never manage to witness and visualize the wonderful colors others could. It hurt knowing he'd never get another chance at the pure exhilaration of being surrounded by those he loved and cared about, just wishing for _it_ to have never happened in the first place.

There was also the fact that he had to resort in such tactics, that very point screamed to everyone and everything how pathetic he truly was. It told how remarkably incapable and substantial his efforts were, that it wasn't nearly significant of a struggle to be called support for all his expanded accountability. Was he just not doing enough? Did he simply not have an efficient amount of his previous integrity, confidence, and/or durability to his stability? Were all his efforts put to waste?

"**Of course it was"**

The voice spoke in a sort of mocking humor, having a great amount of amusement at the moment.

The words were something he couldn't bring himself to contradict. He couldn't influence nor' persuade himself to consider the thought of it being wrong and/or a blunder. He regarded the equivalence of his self-worth as nothing, he concluded that he_ himself _was nothing. Now he must ask, how does the result of his exsertion differ?

Simple. It didn't.

So, in the end, should he even bother?

"**Yes"**

It answered, a hissing sound indicating anger now suffused in the voice this time around.

"**This is exactly what you owe- what you deserve. You shall never compensate for everything, but you ****will**** commit to bestowing. With each time that you fail on that task, it will eradicate you inside, out. ****That**** is your punishment."**

Silence appeared to insinuate towards an echo.

The hypothesis those eyes tried to puncture into him sounded like such unmitigated nonsense, but, right now, he lost what little rationality his mentality had formerly supplied him with. With anything that glare "said" brought up nothing but the "sincere truth" to him and he truly believed that to be the case. Every verdict it spoke sounded legitimate- and it _hurt. _He was well aware of how pessimistic and foolish it was, but elucidating the logic between the two arguments wasn't something he was currently capable of. That being said, it left what was displayed before him to choose from, and that just happened to be an unreasonable choice to unknowingly decide on. In short, the trust he put on this self-hatred wasn't intentional, it wasn't something he could entirely blame himself for, but then that's where this hatred intrudes; he forces and believes himself of accusatory.

"**You deserve to burn. You deserve nothing less of failure. But most of all, you deserve ****nothing****."**

The sense of feeling those various scowls intensifying its gaze onto his figure was dreadful.

The distraction of his cuts couldn't prevent them, it didn't have the endurance to counteract the stupidity of the impudent absurdity for long.

The pain in his flesh didn't have the power to convince its owner it wasn't true, that it shouldn't even be considered. That he _did_ deserve something.

It couldn't assure that everything was in his head.

"**You are entitled to insignificant void"**

_It was all fake, right?_

"**To nonentity"**

_Yes? … No…?_

"**Immaterial worthlessness"**

_Which of the two was it?_

"**You don't justify for anything."**

_The former?_

"**You lay claim to such trifle extinction"**

_The latter?_

"**You shall gain nothing less of nullified vacuity"**

_Neither?_

"**You get comeuppance towards absolute trivia"**

_Both?_

"**You warrant ****nothing at all****"**

What did it matter? _They_ were right. _Those burning eyes_ didn't lie. _They _couldn't be- **weren't** wrong. _They_ knew the evident truth.

_I deserve nothing._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Confirmation of the Conclusion

**Warning: This story does include vulgar thoughts and actions. Please proceed at your own accord.**

**Just so you know, this story is NOT Third Person Limited.**

* * *

It was quite early in the morning, if the birds' "annoying" chirping, causing surrounding people aggravation, was anything to go by. The sky was a light tint of blue, indicating it was around 7 am, the beautiful touch of fuchsia in the stratosphere also signifying early April.

Although, dormant wasn't something to label the dark-haired boy reclining within his futon, being solely focused on the ceiling in front of him. He was beyond conscious, have been for the past three days now, but even so, he remained unconditionally indefatigable. Yes, despite that "event" that occurred just last night amidst himself, the bathroom, and an aciculate edge, he had an immense amount of energy left. In fact, in the previous present time, he had so very much craved for continuation, desired to maintain the blade gouging at his already red-stained flesh, but he willed himself to a stop. It definitely wasn't in his planner to be found out so easily, especially if it was an encounter among someone and his corpse. That had meant that, in the end, he had to, unfortunately, undergo the prodigious pressures belonging to those malicious convictions. Every single one assaulting him with uncivilized principles without his consent.

He opposed that fraction of freedom.

"Conan-kun!" His friend (and current guardian) called. Immediately following her voice were the resonations of footsteps, evidently identifying as her own, approaching at an alarming rate. In a panic, he shut his eyelids, trying to seem as if he were asleep in the most nonchalant way possible; turning to his side, facing opposite so as to conceal his face from the door, all in a relaxed manner.

He inwardly cursed, momentarily distressed at the sight of his glasses situated on his nose and the feeling of a stray pencil poking at his arm. _When in the shit did that get there?_

"Conan-kun?" The sound of the door opening ventilated. Having said that, he didn't dare risk any chances by peeking because of his burning curiosity. Nonetheless, moderate strides made their way towards him and the sensation of her gaze caused him to fight down a shudder. An unessential hand placed itself on top of his shoulder, shaking as if to "awaken" him.

"Conan-kun, you're going to be late," she whispered right beside his ear. He felt as though he was compelled to blush, but he didn't. Those spiteful words suddenly absconding back into his mind.

"**You don't deserve anything."**

He decided to act in a childish fashion, in the impression of demerit exposure if he didn't. As if, without the affectation, he would be left vulnerable and prone to, not only Ran but, everything and _anything._

"Mnn," he moaned, feigning sluggish exhaustion. "Ran-... neechan?"

"You need to get up, Conan. I made breakfast." He nodded in response, genuinely stretching before _respectfully_ (**never** piss off a Ran) asking her to leave. After all, he _was_ "awake now."

Complying with his aspiring wishes, she left the room, (thankfully) closing the door behind her.

He stood, stretching and yawning one last time before ambulating to dress, not bothered enough to take a shower. He adorned himself in a white button-up shirt and gray jeans, quickly checking the temperature before slipping on a black, zipper-up sweater.

He then progressed over to the restroom and brought over a stool to accompany him to the sink. In doing so, he thoroughly cleansed his mouth. Spitting out access paste, he rinsed his crevice before making the disinfecting mouthwash do its job. Having completed this daily routine, he stepped off the footrest, placing it back to its rightful compartment, before returning to his and (unfortunately) Kogoro's resting place to collect his belongings; machinery and bag.

He was about to make his way downstairs when, suddenly, he suspended his movements. Not a millisecond later did he accelerate towards the restroom once more.

He held a hysterical expression, jaw clenched in a distraught manner. He negligently shot open the domestic and all-too-familiar drawer from under the sink. Expeditiously snatching the- _his_ razor blade, he swiftly wrapped it in a handkerchief before situating it inside his left, jacket pocket. Only then did he finally make his way back in front of the stairway, leisurely, but still cautiously so as to not trip, promenading to the first floor.

Upon reaching the designated area, he took in a few details.

Kogoro was settled in front of the television, immodestly laughing away. Simultaneously, he was vehemently chewing his homemade breakfast, drinking his nearly daily portions of beers, repulsively spitting chunks in every direction.

Ran watched in her very own repugnance, her nose scrunching upwards clearly expressed that fact. Although, she didn't waste her time to scold her father, it was was a futile attempt anyway. Instead, she shook her head in shame, finally deciding to notice Conan, who was simply standing there; his usual dead-panned expression in action

"Hurry up, Conan-kun. Before it gets cold." He complied, not wanting to bother Ran any further than he has to. After all, he was already so much of a nuisance staying at this household, no less having her care of his well-being. So, it was preferable if he behaved, right?

He ascended up the chair, accommodating himself on it before gazing into the food plated in front of him. The steam leaving the tray of eggs and toast, followed by a bowl of rice, indicated that it was nowhere near converting into cold food. Ran was overexaggerating… again.

Moving on, though, he felt… taunted. It was strange, he was feeling _mocked_ by- no, not Ran but, by _rice and eggs. _He was definitely going insane…

He lifted the bowl of rice and his chopsticks, gingerly saying his thanks and proceeding by deliberately eating the meal bit by bit. He chewed, almost unnoticeably reducing his pace until he decisively came to a permanent stop.

This wasn't overlooked by Ran, who immediately ceased her very own consumption to face the other, quite predictably too. She produced a look of both worry and annoyance, it was (fortunately) mostly the former.

"What's wrong?" She asked, already losing patience. In all honesty, she just wanted the "child" to consume his food before it truly does become frigid. It didn't matter to her if she just got it ready only a moment ago, it was no good eating frozen breakfast

A minute transpired until he raised his head to confront her. He was evidently disturbed by something, creating an anxious sensation within Ran. She couldn't help but wonder, _should he go back to bed?_

"I'm not really hungry…" it sounded more like a question than anything. Nonetheless, she took the previous speculation back.

He couldn't help but shiver under her burning gaze and combustible patience. A dangerous, threatening hand "gently" established itself ontop his own; he trembled over an entity beyond her fury and moreover because of that _venomous stare._

"You're not?" He gulped at the menacing tone. Even so, he dared to stand his ground on his own perception and answer his friend truthfully.

"I'm not…" He could only watch each unspecified moment her eye twitched while keeping her not-so-gracious smile on. Whenever she did do that small action, he was repleted with incomparable terror.

"Conan-kun," she started, obviously trying to force the smile to an impossible extent. "I made it just for you, and you _know_ we don't waste food in this house." Both of her statements may be indisputable facts, but he _really_ wasn't hungry, probably just… dehydrated?

"Ran-neechan, I'm really no-" A nefarious glare. Oh-so-very sinister eyes cut him off, promising nothing short of regret from _anyone_ that opposed them. He shuddered, overwhelmed by _those dominate eyes_ digging into him.

"_Eat it."_ He obliged. He did so leisurely, reluctant about the whole situation, but, one look at his friend prevented any sort of freedom of speech. Despite willingly (forcing) himself to eat, in the end, he felt sick over… what?

Exactly, he genuinely didn't understand why he wasn't hungry. Wouldn't a person usually feel at least a _tad_ bit starved not having slept? So, why wasn't he? He knew for sure he wasn't ill, so, why'd he feel like skipping today's meal? Why in the hell would he refuse the cooking Ran made? Perhaps he was overrea-

He was incapable of completing that thought since his _guardian_ made it upon herself to take his dishware, both half-finished. Glancing at her direction, he saw her give him a concerned look before she headed towards the kitchen, a platter of their combined dishes balanced in her hands.

He was confused. He was questioning if he had done something for her to react as so. Well… he _did_ protest against eating her food, he also only ate half of it too… _Ack! _Perhaps he showed it on his face- his distress? _Well, damn._

Choosing to ignore his friend's worrying, he returned to his previous speculation.

_Alright, what was I saying again? Oh yeah, why am I not hungry?_

Finding no answer, he concluded he was simply overreacting. It really must've been nothing. It was just one of those very rare occasions he wasn't feeling up to eating.

If that truly were the case, though, what was this unsettling feeling he had?

There was no point in having Ran worry over him if it certainly were nothing, thus, he decided to label it as so. Either way, it was more than not beneficial if he didn't involve his friend with his problems. He was authentic about not wasting her time, especially if he was at fault. In result, he concluded it was preferred to keep any sort of conflicts he carried on himself at all times. Even without his previous kept affection for the female, he wished not to endanger her, or anyone else in the matter. It was practically a liability to maintain everyone's safety. It definitely isn't essential to involve Ran and others into worthless situations, nor' was it vital to hinder their energy and/or kindness.

_He just didn't deserve that._

Conan swiftly put on his child persona before approaching his current guardian. She was obviously startled by the sudden contact amidst a hand and her leg, having yelped a bit too loudly, but neither commented on that. Instead, she ceased her scrubbing on a plate to give him her full attention, causing him to inwardly wince in return due to guilt. He grieved over his actions for bothering her but continued the purpose of obtaining her awareness in the first place.

"R-Ran-neechan, I'm sorry about breakfast. I promise to eat lunch properly," he spoke, and although he may have not believed his very own words, he still bowed down in an apologetic manner. The pleadings in his tone also weren't his usual act, it was more honest than he had meant for it to be.

He nearly sighed in relief as soon as he caught her adoring, yet, microscopic smile, albeit through his bangs since he remained at a low angle. Although, the angle of his body was less exaggerated this time around. The mere sight- no- thought of her smile still made his heart warm, even while lacking his past passion. That description also went for her eyes, an astounding amount of sincere care and love within them could bring him to tears.

He was enticed to give one of his very own tender expressions, when he, without warning, felt his blood run cold, dangerously so, and he couldn't avoid shivering in a cold sweat before he returned to his normal temperature. Having been caught off-guard, he didn't have time to prepare himself and cover his emotions, so, Ran, to his disappointment, noticed his gestures.

When she questioned him, he had no choice but to tell her the truth. It wouldn't change anything, anyways.

"Ah, it's nothing. I just got really cold all of a sudden. Weird, huh?"

A small, and dare he says, _incoherent _smirk made its way on her face, and he managed to catch it prior to when it shifted into an amused smile.

"See, Conan? You'll get (a) cold if you don't eat," she said quite proudly. It was significantly undeniable that she believed he would consider her remark, so, out of slight sympathy, he followed along with her antics. Of course, he knew better (who the hell do you think he is?), but he'd rather get past this irrelevant matter and not bother the female an awful lot, much less make her angry.

"Hai, Hai," he impassively replied. He left the conversation, not giving Ran a choice in the matter, and hurried towards the cleaning utensils as a distraction.

For starters, he grabbed a spray and paper towel(s) to wipe down the table until it contained nothing but the absolute shine the boy magically produced. Then, he lifted the chairs, with whatever strength he wondrously had at the moment, and arranged them away from the room, only after that did he make a move to clutch the broom and the dustpan from its rightful place. Subsequently, he swept up every single speck of dust on the floor until even the people lacking socks were capable of sliding across it. Finally, he returned the chairs to where they belonged before deciding to decorate the table with a small vase of a few flowers, followed by medium and small sized (vanilla and hazelnut-scented) candles (one each), lighting it up to fight against a certain man's smoking. Speaking of which, the table would be described as spotless if it weren't for those damned cigarette marks displaying itself hopelessly on the poor, damaged counter. (What a shame, indeed!)

"Wow!" The brunette exclaimed, the yelling being something that the _younger _hadn't anticipated beforehand, so he had (accidentally) let out a (girly) yelp. Fortunately (or so he believed), the female didn't notice while she was preoccupied with her admiration to do so (again: or so he thought).

Her eyebrows were raised, unambiguous stars in her eyes and an inevitable (motherly) content within her smile. Although, for clarification (not that she doubted her responsibility's ability), she reached out her hand to touch the table, sliding a finger across it and bringing it back into her vision. _Not a crumb left, holy s- _"Amazing…" she began, facing Conan with a grin, who did the same (just, with less satisfaction and more… tenderness(?)). "You know," a giggle escaped her, slightly confusing her companion. "You'd make a great husband… or wife!" she quickly added. "No discrimination.~"

The expression she held didn't seem to waver in any sort of kidding manner, causing his face to redden as his right eye twitched a bit.

_How could she say that? _Although grateful as he may be, it was kind of… strange. It was appreciated that she didn't seem to hold any signs of homophobia, but he had such a strange mental image. Seeing himself in a wedding dress (as Shinichi) was odd, no less with _The_ Kaito KID… _kissing. _The thought of himself with Kaito, disguise or not (yes, he knew) didn't exactly disgust him, but rather, it was slightly disturbing. Yeah… he didn't wish to dwell on that subject any longer…

"We shoul-" He was cut short, completely interrupted by his friend's… talking.

"It's totally fine if you marry a boy," she stated seriously, abruptly ending up laughing to herself, as if she were thinking of something...bizarre. Oh gosh, who lowered the temperature? "I'm almost 100% confident you'd be the bride." No matter how much he wanted to protest, he had thought the same thing… Ah, but the febricity… "Imagine you and Mitsuhiko! It'd be so adora-!"

"Ran-neechan!" He drastically blurted out, red completely painting his structure; up to his ears down to his neck. Hell, the other could've sworn she saw a bit of pink polishing his hands as well.

Unconsciously, he let out a whimper, inwardly and intuitively blaming it on his child persona as he simultaneously avoided the truth. Whilst flustered, he still managed to say, "We're going to be late!" Smooth, right? Real smooth.

"Ack!" She took out her phone and brought it to her vision, eyes widening in realization. "You're right. Quickly, put on your shoes." He went and did just that, sighing and thanking whatever lasting luck had allowed him to escape this time.

During his task, he heard some shuffling coming from his current guardian's direction, specifically the kitchen. _It's most likely lunch._ He proved himself right once he caught sight of the bentos tightly grasped in one of her hands while the other held her school bag. She handed him one of the two packages before placing the second inside her bag, having to shuffle things around for the much-needed space.

In doing so, the pair walked out the door, immediately feeling a refreshing breeze past their exposed skin, complimenting the warmth of the sun poking out from the horizon and their intertwined hands. The taller shut the door and locked it, darting out the building and onto a better area to feel the relaxing air rushing past them.

The two couldn't help but smile, as if there were no problems in the world; an old friend wasn't really gone, there was no drug, no tears, sadness, misery. That there never truly was any pain involved in their lives. All that mattered was the reassurance both their connected hands held, even if the shorter had to reach the highest he could, it didn't compare to the supportive sensation the other person's warmth had. They felt comfort at that moment.

But that time was always so limited.

They were reluctant to let go of each others' grasp, but it was inevitable. It was a slow, painful moment, their fingers gently and hesitantly sliding off the other's palm as they watched the scene in disappointment. Conan stared up at her with such distressed eyes, but all she could do was give him her very own apologetic expression.

"Sorry, Conan-kun. I promised to meet up with Sonoko… for who knows what reason," she muttered the last part to herself, so he decided to ignore it.

She took one step back, ultimately regretting her decision to free the boy from her hold, but she simply waved her hand, producing one of the most fabricated smiles he's ever seen.

Nonetheless, he waved back, grimly watching her retreating form. It nearly took all his strength not to sigh in discontent, slumping his shoulders instead. To any passer-by, he would have completely resembled a doll, but in reality, his cerulean orbs held a great amount of sorrow than anyone could ever hope to comprehend. Just as the saying went, his eyes were the greatest way one could access his unrelenting emotions.

He thought back to the recent night, such a perilous time in which he felt a ludicrous supply of culpability, amenability, and vulnerability. Such instability and inadequacy to obtain and cease the endless bickering from invading his already weakened mind. All he could do was recall those harsh and strident words, the very ones that repeatedly slaughtered his confidence, annihilating his will to do a complex number of activities he would have previously done without a second thought. Although he gave the voices his consent to wonder his mind at the moment, deliberate about trying to convince himself of each syllable and its false statements, it did the exact opposite.

He felt disgusting, repulsive even. He so very wished to remain alone, the fresh wind swishing past and against his figure, giving an excuse for his watering eyes, believable or not. At this point, all he could do was imagine the comfort and protectiveness of his covers, sheets thick enough to muffle his cries with ease as he let out everything to his heart's content.

"**Only a self-destructive fool would consider your love an option"**

He wished he hadn't eaten, because what he desired more than anything was to puke.

"Are you okay, Edogawa-kun?" He jumped, undeniably alarmed by her- no- _their_ sudden appearance. Ugh, of course, he hadn't noticed them approaching, having been too deep in thought to do so.

They, the Detective Boys, and their usual self-eating grin were replaced with a terrifying look of concern, and it made his heart race. The rising pace in his chest was nowhere near similar to that of when he had begun to solve a case, it was essentially petrifying. He feared, distinctively, of anyone ascertaining and perceiving his conflicts, no less of his morally daily enterprise done night after night.

This had, unfortunately (to him), led to a stutter (of panic). "A-ah, uh, I'm fine, Haibara." He couldn't help but bite his lip, devastated at himself for failing and doing precisely what he sought out not to do. He roughly chewed on the skin, as if punishing his actions. He fought against his consciousness and willed himself to seem more convincing by staring at those... those _burning eyes._

Not being one of mastery in the profession of acting, he surrendered with a gulp and a nervous laugh, conclusively deciding to avoid their gazes in the end. Eventually, he simply gave them a smile of fakery and distortion (made quite perceptible), walking past their frames without giving any sign of acknowledgment.

"**To be yourself? What utter nonsense"**

"C-Come on, guys. Only a few minutes before class starts." Oh god. He hoped with all his might no one was to behold such an unsightly spectacle such as the glassy feature to his blue eyes, let alone the wetness to his cheeks. And, to his pleasure, no one did, his face becoming dry in the course of time it took to arrive at their destination. Yes, despite the searing worry scrutinies everyone held on him, they just continued on, following every step he took without question. Having to bear the silence surrounding them and dropping every attempt at a conversation they had within themselves.

Concluding being 5 minutes early upon arriving into the classroom and taking a glance at the clock hanging from out of their reach, they chose to use this time to store their belongings. Although the teacher also managed this time to exploit her questions about an incident, Conan quickly confirmed he was safe and ensured that her anxiousness wasn't necessary. He then sat in his respectful area, a place in which was assigned to him since he enrolled/arrived in the school, the others doing the same.

Except, the difference between the groups was the boy's obliviousness to the troubled faces of both his friends and teacher, solely focused on nothing as he was left with his thoughts.

"**You're far inferior to the worthlessness of the men in the world, and you must understand the poor shape this place is in"**

The cluster of eyes locked their gazes towards him, evidently dismissing the thought of bypassing both his demeanor and structure. Even as the teacher (herself) passed out the pretest papers to an assessment coming in on Wednesday, the people never considered overlooking the "child."

They all ignored the groans and protests the children emitted and the main educator present settled with detaching him from the others by refusing to give him a sheet, something he didn't seem to notice. That fact confirmed their suspicions.

'_He is thinking of something troubling.'_

Then there was the lunch period.

Everyone sat within their respective areas, places they came to unconsciously decide was their "assigned seats" for the appointed time. So, with that, the children went their daily ways, just as the Detective Boys did. Watching the people approaching, he hopelessly tried to act naturally; quickly and rushingly reaching for his bento, practically forcing others to believe he was alright, that he had an appetite.

"**You're just... pediculus"**

He ate at a moderate pace, just as he did this morning, dispiritedly munching on the fruit with a distant look. In short, he wasn't very convincing. Having only had enough time to consume scarcely a quarter of the meal, it most definitely contributed and facilitated the additional need to insulate the boy suffering.

Everyone restituted back into their former sections, sitting just as they were 30 minutes ago. And, even though all of the students seemed to already be depleted of their energy, Conan definitely wasn't meant in the same category. It wasn't simply his energy that was weary, but just his entire being. His once beautiful, glistening blue eyes were now nothing short of lifeless.

"**You're a whore, a good for nothing."**

Ignoring the lump in her throat, Ms. Kobayashi announced another study for science tests, incontrovertibly resulting in, quite exaggerated, groans of protests. Fortunately, they all shut their mouths with a glance at her unamused and rather glaring expression. Sighing, she did what she was hired for and handed out worksheets for the class to embark upon, sequentially deciding to give the cowlick-haired boy the papers. After all, he implied a look of… fright? Restlessness? Either way, he gave the impression of a need for distraction, even if the signs were small and hardly visible, he _was_ one of her dear students.

"**I envy everyone you've never met"**

Having set the packets down in front of him, she instantly noticed a shift within his eyes. They became exceedingly more unimpeded, something so very much preferred than the deeply undecipherable, cloudy mess it once was. Not a second later did that expression drop into shreds as he began to work through the pages in such speed she never thought she'd ever see a child have. In just ten minutes (filled with utter flabbergast), she was on her way to prepare extra papers, not even able to staple them before he was completely finished with all 3 five-paged (front and back) packets.

Conan didn't even emanate any manifestation of indiscriminate satisfaction, only hungrily desperate for more. Anything, even the most negligible of all diversions was what he craved remarkably so.

Being in the middle of their very own work, the children (excluding Haibara) took the time to glance up (Haibara was watching the whole thing from the beginning (Science was her strong suit)), witnessing the scene of their teacher so helplessly struggling to provide their friend with assignments. It eventually came to a point where the teacher gathered a stack of papers (including even math) from all the higher grades in the school; it undoubtedly fascinated her that she had her sights on a _prodigy_. Although, her apprehension hadn't faltered whatsoever.

The process continued for approximately over an hour and a half, way past the appointed time for the next class subject, but with someone like Conan, who could honestly blame her?

"**Yer' not beautiful"**

"**Never were, never will be" **

Eventually, though, the boy came to an abrupt stop, swallowing a lump in his throat over something they wouldn't have a chance at deciphering if it weren't for the virtually unobtrusive shaking his entire body had.

"**You're ****hideous****"**

"Edog-" Haibara stopped her sentence half-way as she was presented with such an immobilizing and foreign sight of those uncanny streams.

_Tears._ Her gaze became solemn. _He's crying. _She had a strong desire to snap the "boy" (who had saved her life countless times) out of his unknown trance.

Not much later did he, as if suddenly aware of what his body was emitting, frantically wipe his face, fighting off the sob that nearly escaped him. He endeavored to cease the supposedly "bothersome" tears, but they had no intention of obliging. Oh, how hard he tried; the rubbing ranging from his shoulder down to the very tips of his fingers, but it did **nothing. ** So, he ultimately rested his head within his hands, palms pressuring against his eyes, he didn't mind, though. He very much wished not to see various eyes witnessing the pathetically vulnerable mess he currently was.

"I'm fine." _Just go away._

"No, you're not. What's wrong?"

"Nothing." _Everything._

"Stop lying, you're not convincing anyone, you know."

"What are you talking about?" _I know, it doesn't sound authentic to me, either._

"Edogawa, I'm serious."

"So am I." _I really can't say._

"Do you want to call someone?"

"I'm fine." _No, __because__ nothing here is 'fine.'_

"Then, why are you crying?"

"I was staring for too long, is all." _Because it hurts._

"Cona-"

"I'm **fine.**" _All of it is so __painful._

"Alright. Why were you staring for so long?"

"Reasons." _For such vulgar and horrendous reasons._

"What reasons?"

"Cases." _Memories._

"What about them?"

"Just how repulsive they are." _They're cruel and so utterly heartless._

"In which way?"

"Greedy, emotional humans." _Every way._

"Tell the truth!"

"I am." _No…_

"Just speak your mind!"

"I said I was." _Understand that I can't._

"Stop lying already!"

"I'm-" _Sorry…_

A hand promptly grasp his left wrist, forcing it forward, but the lid of his right eye remained resting on his remaining palm. Unfortunately for him, his fellow companion thought it admissible; the fact that he refused to even look at her and the simple appearance itself. Conclusively, she yanked his other arm. He fundamentally lifted his head to face the opposing person, showing her his additionally distinguishable bloodshot eyes.

Haibara stood in front of his desk as if towering over him, inappreciably leaning ever so close to his sitting form with an inexcusable glare staring daggers into him. He requested nothing more than to be able to avoid her gaze, but it screamed obedience- to cease any ounce of resistance he held. The unwavering, turquoise orbs scared- no- terrified him to no end.

He had tried to retrieve his hands back at his side, but that had only resulted in a tighter hold, the small fingers squeezing harshly and directly onto one of his freshly, renewed cuts. He visibly flinched. This evidently didn't go unnoticed by the scientist, who clenched one hand, then the other before finally concluding a dire situation established through the wincing of her "savior." With the (assumed) informational detail, she took his left arm, specifically the one that had caused him to grimace in the first place, and pulled the sleeves of obstruent clothing down before the other could have a choice in the matter. She slid the covering haltingly, centimeter by centimeter she revealed more of his arm. Her look hardened along with the other's crying and gasping.

It was beyond awful.

This time, though, he truly did divert his field of vision somewhere else that wasn't her demanding eyes, cringing at the reality that hit him.

They now knew of his toxic activity, and soon enough, _everyone_ will.

_Damn it!_

He snatched his hands back into his possession, away and hidden from everyone's view. His face was contorted in ferocity, only to lose its frightening touch once a tinge of pain reflected itself in the waves of blue that were his eyes. The direction of his frown went towards Haibara, conceiving a flinch at the tension within his eyes.

They were similar to that of sinuous cosmic dust. Seemingly unfocused, but the dark slit of his pupil told otherwise; nothing except a sharp hostility. Although, what struck _all_ of them the most, were the small squinting of the eyes and the upward curves of his eyebrows that _pleaded _for _something._ An escape route, support, or just a _break. _

It pained them all having to sit back and watch as someone they cherish crumble under the weight of an uncanny entity, choosing and obligating himself into a state of hiding, suppressing both himself and the reasoning of his sorrow from those they believed he trusted most. It was unnerving knowing someone, whether that be his mindset or a separate being altogether, was capable of bringing the bravest person they knew into silence through terror.

They made it upon themselves to curse whatever or whoever was responsible for their detective's misery into absolute oblivion. They promised themselves that, no matter what, they would- no- _will_ have that disgusting and treacherous being caught for his/her doing(s). They will, without a doubt, cause that horrendous fool nothing but the worst anyone could ever hope to endure until their last breath, and even then, that wouldn't be as sufficient enough.

Although, they must put their vengeance on hold, seeing as their first and utmost priority was allowing Conan, the one affected, to feel comfortable once again. What was more important than their very own self-satisfaction was reassuring him that they wouldn't tolerate any more of his unbearable suffering. They wouldn't _dare_ let the opposing side have the authority and do as they will with him. As if.

First things first, knowing exactly what had happened to him and earning enough of his amenity. They needed enough of it for the cowlick-haired boy to explain what exactly his main conflict was, otherwise they couldn't do a single thing but be spectators.

Yes, despite the retreating form that belonged to Conan himself, droplets following in his trail, none of their burning determinations wavered. Instead, all of their convictions thrived higher than ever, having currently witnessed the victim's agony and the result of his unknown torment.

They'll definitely figure out what had caused such a depressing sight that was his eventual reaction, deciding to provide their support whether he wanted it or not. Conan needed the assistance, and they'll play the part.

So, of course, his reluctance, especially if they considered it to be one out of a future dozen times, was futile to their very own obligation for effort. They'll all try their hardest and will succeed.

And confirming that "fact," they will have concluded that Conan's "little" spurt of anger wasn't directed towards Haibara herself, but rather _himself._ Many would have also resolved that this was the chance they had to repay for the countless times the detective had saved their lives. They could finally owe their debt for the multiple times of guidance they received from him and say that…

_He is not okay._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Path to Disaster

**Warning: This story does include vulgar thoughts and actions. Please proceed at your own accord.**

* * *

As Conan ran the fastest he could- which was quite so, he thanked whatever god(s) had gifted him with the ability to play soccer because, without it, he was more than positive his puny, fragile legs wouldn't have been able to keep up with him.

During this time, though, all he could feel was void. He _felt_ nothing as every part of him was numb, heightening his other senses and leaving him completely aware of his surroundings. He still felt a tinge of pain and fatigue coming through to him a bit, but it was dull enough that he had neither lessened both his immersion nor his pace. Don't dare think for a second that the wariness in his body changed or made him contemplate it any longer than a second, because there was another arduous sensation that overrode it. He also wasn't completely aware of the more-than-unmistakeable tears flying at his trail due to his sky-rocketing adrenaline. His sobs and breathless wheezing; he could only_ hear_ them.

He couldn't stop his panting and coughs being as it was; his mind and body were in different situations, but they had the same goal. _Escape. _Everything emitted from him echoed along the hallways, being that much more effective towards himself. He just wanted liberation, freedom. _Damn. _His voice was categorically sloppy, also having his disheveled sprinting alarming anyone in its pass, but he ignored teachers and staff.

"No running in the halls!"

"Is something wro-"

"You're going to fall!"

"You're going to hurt yourse-"

"Stop running!"

His lungs burned and his entire being ached at even the minimal drop in speed. Everything seemed to twist and turn, causing further disturbance into his already exhausted body, although, he still managed to insinuate his person to reach within the elementary restroom. Despite the sight of not-so-sanitary stains on the room, he rested against the wall, revitalizing himself.

He felt heavy, his limbs shaking as if they were the strings of an instrument. He erupted in nerves and shivers, being the result of his endless deliberations and anxiety.

_What did I just do?_

He groaned in utter shame and self-resentment.

He just had to get himself involved in such a troublesome and very unpleasant situation. He would curse his luck, but he could only blame himself for it all. The panic attack he had tried to endure was one of the main causes, only leading further down into his debilitated state. He was weak. Ugh, and all he was in need of was a distraction, but elementary school work was incontestably useless.

Geez, why must there be people who care?-

"**Traitor."**

"**You're despicable."**

Why did he have to bother them?

Vulnerability was a bitch, even worse for him because he was so prone to those distasteful eyes. Pathetic, nothing short of it. If he hadn't been so unsteady- hadn't been _himself_\- wasn't present initially, then maybe the circumstances could be avoided and what's to come could morph into something different- better. He blew the chances of privacy and created a preeminent dilemma altogether. To prevent his friends from worrying was now impossible, all because he was _weak._ If he was in the least bit exceptional, or if he was stronger, perhaps he could've stopped himself from bothering so many people now and in the future.

But he wasn't.

_So stupid!_

He couldn't even do so much as hide the evidence any better than those damned criminals. What kind of detective was he if he himself wasn't any different than them; if he couldn't do any better? It was just hypercritical at this point.

"**Useless."**

His mind was helplessly lost, completely on auto-pilot as he unconsciously reached for the salient blade hidden within the confinements of his jacket pocket. He slipped out the handkerchief that wrapped itself around the malicious tool, this fact making him so unbearably close from lacing the object between battered skin that was his fingers.

He unwrapped it slowly.

No barriers were preventing the inevitable.

He was a single step off from witnessing the crimson color he found to be beautiful more times than not. He was one move away from viewing the sight he hadn't failed to see countless times before.

Now it was zero.

Yes, there was a small twinkle of the familiar sanguine fluid as soon as he aligned the supposed weapon to the back of his forearm and grazed it across. He didn't take time to observe the many scars littering the limb that he himself had implanted. His didn't bother, for he was already too acquainted with the long, unsparing lines to the deep and excruciating jabs. After all, he had inflicted them.

And he was ready to add to them.

It was just a small graze, but it brought upon chills far worse and intense than even the coldest temperature's aspirations can ever conjure up. Don't get him wrong, he despised this process no less than you probably do, but do you honestly think he does it just for the sake of it? _He can't help it. _Having the cold metal flow across his skin almost familiarly broke him and made him automatically come to the conclusion that this process was a way of saying he surrendered, but it simultaneously brought upon the greatest freedom. It was too, to such an amount that he wouldn't have ever previously (and presently) dared himself the optimism of achieving it.

But the opportunity lay so enticingly in his hands.

The slices were light but consistent. It dug through layers and layers of skins, each one cutting precisely where the previous ones were made. As the voices within his head grew louder in volume, so did his pace. Although, no matter how impatient and rushing he was, his desperation didn't corrupt his concentrated and collected persona as he was none but accurate. It was more than upsetting to him to come to the realization that, by instinct above most, he was capable of executing exactly where to dig to. It was despicable and nearly sickening to learn and become naturally well at how to harm oneself. It was all but beautiful.

He knew.

He understood how disgusting it was to become inured and even skilled at this preposterous process. He wasn't oblivious to the wrongs and cons his actions held, he was far from uninformed of his accumulated stupidity. He was also well aware of how worried everyone will be, how it affected him (already), and how it will cause further predicaments if he continued.

But what could he do?!

Every day of his life was filled with the grief of himself, his friends, strangers, acquaintances, and others. Plus, at the end of it all, he stood at the very center of the chaos. Having to experience it endlessly, sometimes multiple times a day, a bunch of overwhelming emotions was a result of it. You can't deny it. He was bound to break sooner or later, and that time just happened to already occur at some point, that mysterious time absolutely devastating.

And, for what it's worth, the devastation he's felt at that moment just seems to drag on. His torment of that assumed day still has yet to come to an end. His panic during class periods only seemed to grow, any sort of distractions ineffective, and his constant overthinking just increased his already agitated being all the way to its peak.

And damn was it worse than a shot to the chest.

He couldn't think of any way to fend off his ever-growing stress. Reading was something he already did on a daily-bases, so it couldn't possibly provide the necessary relief. Soccer was the same- simply a hobby he did too often for the easement. Playing an instrument wasn't any better. He used it (specifically a violin) for purposes that didn't supply stress relief. The sounds the strings made were a way of expressing his emotions and having a connection with the outside world to his mind, but it wasn't a way to dwindle his feelings.

Drawing, writing, cooking, laughing, feigning, crying, medication, exercising, meditating, singing; they were all useless.

_Useless. _

_Useless._

_**So utterly useless.**_

Then a thought went through his head.

"_What about physical harm?"_

He's a fool, not a moron. He knew of cutting since before he reached 4th grade… or 3rd. Whatever. The point was: he was intelligent and informed, once a prodigy if you willed. He'd done so many different things, searched so far, hoped for so much, but this was the result. And he both loved and hated it with all his heart.

Every jab into his skin was similar to that of swimming, but just slightly superior. Having the sensation of being underwater, dashing through the cool freshwater surrounding him. Unfortunately, he was only human and was in need of air, want or not, it was a necessity. Although, when he attempted to swim up for air, powerful waves struck him down, making him struggle more than ever. He fought against the water as it prevented him from achieving the ultimate freedom, but in the end, he was always left with no choice but to face his fears of the deep sea. Of course, it was far more mortifying than the bright, sky-blue water than was the ocean surface. Even more so when compared to that gorgeous and breath-taking place that was the sky.

It was completely out of reach.

_\- Splat -_

As if in a subconscious endeavor, having his hand advance and extend almost viciously, he had unintentionally lunge the sharp metal just roughly under his thumb and above his wrist. That moment in time was practically inevitable to him as well. He's been thinking of the wanted area for longer than he realized. (Longer than he should've.)

_Such peace could never be reached._

There was always a wall separating- _preventing_ him from attaining something so delightful. He was a fool to ever have hoped that it will ever be in his hands, for he did not deserve such a wonderful thing such as tranquility.

A specimen so incredibly magnificent? How dare he even _think_ about laying his treacherous, unpalatable hands on it.

He did not believe in things similar to that of fate or destiny, but he knew, possibly on instinct, that his person as a whole warranted the lowest entities available. His person couldn't ever glaze its hair over the desired beauty. Convinced of deserving the sorrow, guilt, and loathing he brought upon himself.

He couldn't escape his actions, neither could he flee from the blame. He thought he had chosen his story, but he had given himself a script without considering the consequences. That this was not the world's doing. This was the result of his stupidity; a tragedy he had unconsciously given himself.

"**You're disgusting."**

He just wanted to escape.

He just wanted to leave.

But, he didn't want to die.

...Was it really one of his only options?

He wanted to keep his friends, he didn't want to make them worry.

He wanted to live, to be free and drop all the conundrums that haunted him.

All he requested was a decent life to properly live by!

…

It was too much to ask for, he knew, but he was still very much a minor- _a child. _Despite the never-ending intelligence, he could not cheat wisdom. (Not to mention he was bombarded with events far more tragic than any person- old or not- should ever have to go through. Not that he really thought that though.)

After all- this time, he was pushed down, forced to submit. His unbearable need for rest couldn't relieve him of anything even if it tried. It couldn't bring him to peacefully slumber.

Oh, believe him.

He just wanted to disappear all the while, but he was stuck in the middle of everyone's despair. Everything lays itself down on him, only adding his imprudence that forces himself to be involved any further; he _writhed_ under the pressure. All because it was his _duty._

For the world to simply be of himself, to have peace; it was _so far, _but still _so insufferably close._

_Shit!_

Tears pricked his eyes, and before he knew it, the wetness from his optic running down to his chin returned.

He began to cry.

The tears raced on and on until it reached the edge of his jaw, each droplet involuntarily falling and landing onto an area of open flesh. Sure, it stung, but it was drowned out by the explicit images and words rushing through his mind, each one far worse than the last. The thoughts came to the point where he habitually stabbed deeper, sliced longer, bit his lip harder, and glared harsher, but to no avail.

Stare, stare, staring. Staring at the crimson color that was painting too much of his arm and floor as he ceased any previous actions.

_He couldn't feel it anymore._

The abrupt moment in which he felt the tiniest bits of relief faded. In fact, it hadn't even worked in the slightest. But he needed _more. _He'd be willing to plead to momentarily depart from the malicious tones of his mind.

What does he do now? What else should he do with the sharp edge he grasped? What more could he do when everything around him seemed to scream at him? Is there anything else he can do with a bloodied arm then just take it all?

He stared.

And stared.

_And stared._

He kept staring down as if his lap would give him the answer.

And it didn't.

_It couldn't._

**Because it was the answer.**

Mental images ran through him. Lines. There were lines covering his thighs and it made his breath hitch.

How the hell had that not cross his mind?

Well, in all actuality, it had. Although, he evidently didn't go through with it for multiple reasons. For one, it seemed unreasonable; how would cutting the exact same way only in other areas of his body benefit him any more than simply using his arm could? Two, he wasn't willing to be caught so easily. Sure, his arm was also quite an obvious spot, but it wasn't something a little misdirection couldn't fix. When considering this with other parts of him such as the leg, it couldn't possibly be as easily dealt with; he'd just look like a fool (not that he wasn't one). Three, he needed his legs, possibly more than his arms. He needed them for chasing, kicking, and walking (not to mention investigators did a lot of the handwork anyway). Plus, he often wore shorts, more so than short sleeves.

Except, now, those reasons were useless, for he had been caught by his friends and was too absorbed in himself to come to a right set of mind.

The mere mental images of viewing scars and cuts on his legs somehow brought him ecstasy. And he, almost in an instinctive manner, was accepting of the "simple" solution to the suffocation he currently felt.

So, with that, the consistent tears, the blood, the horrid voices, and the stinging pain on his arms and mind were forgotten, replaced by the pleasure a single _thought _brought upon. The bliss of it was so great it very dearly urged him to make it a reality.

He imagined the feeling.

The luxury.

The gratifying _thrill._

Oh, he couldn't help but listen to his desires, especially if it were within reach after _so damn long._

Lowering his jeans, he pulled and stretched the bare skin of his thigh, straining it this way and that as he was deciding where to cut, but the action only further encouraged his burning wants, bringing his mind to a blank. Having to watch a handful of his skin flatten, making the illusion of there being tons of unnecessary fat show itself to him. All of it simply made the situation far worse than it needed to be.

But what was he going to lean onto? There was no other support than destruction. Forget having to slowly build himself up, that was already a lost cause. He's tried over and over, and yet… _nothing. _He didn't believe he was making anything _worse, _but he, too, honestly believes that ever making anything better is strictly impossible. Therefore, this self-crushing tactic can at least give him a _moment's peace._

A _second, _even.

If it's only a brief period of time, then _so be it._

He's willing to take any moment he can get.

_**Any.**_

And he fucking meant it.

He tightened his hold on both his leg and the glistening blade before he lightly scraped the latter across his skin. Feeling the all-too-familiar tingling sensation was practically breath-taking. He repeated the motion once more on the exact spot and out came the red in all its glory. He squeezed around the cut, watching as more of the sickeningly sweet sight of his blood escaped his body at a faster pace.

Even so, it wasn't going to result in a scar.

He couldn't repay anything with _this._

So, he positions to continue the process, having placed the tip of the razor onto himself as he intends to push it with force.

...

But he never had the chance.

Because a hand extends itself out to him, taking the only thing he knew didn't resent him.

The- _his _blade.

His teacher loomed over him, clutching the snatched metal with enough force to draw blood. He reluctantly watched as the substance oozed out of her skin. Honestly, he loved to see the crimson color flow out of himself, but seeing it on someone else (especially someone he truly cared for) was hell.

He was going to comment on it, but one glance at the woman above him was enough to silence him.

Her eyes held a great amount of frustration. The brown of her eyes glowing intensely with a burning passion made his skin crawl and hands shiver and sweat. The furrowing of her eyebrows interpreting as either a sign of worry or anger, perhaps both, he figured.

Although, even through his unwelcoming terror, he still had his keen eye. He was still capable of acknowledging the great concern within her caring eyes, he just couldn't stop feeling so guilty. He was guilty because he didn't deserve it. Her undivided attention was wasted- _he was fooling them all without anyone realizing. _

She was worrying over someone inexistent, and he couldn't tell her anything.

_She shouldn't have to care for someone that's practically a stranger- who has __**lied**__ to her __**countless times.**_

Everyone he cherishes does, indeed, love him back,_ he_ _knows that. _It's because he knows that, that he feels this way. The fact that they all love _him_ back just proves his point. They respect and trust _him, _but it wasn't _**himself.**_ They're all fond of a _facade. _Although it wasn't as if he didn't trust any of them, he just told lie after _lie. _Even for the people that know of his real person, he had to trouble them with the involvement of the Black Organization. (Obviously, this excludes Haibara/Sherry, she is someone he is quite relieved to think about (since he saved her), but he sometimes has second thoughts on whether it was worth saving her from exploding with that bus because it might just get worse in the future.) He had to resort to the danger of his friends and family for a situation he had stupidly gotten himself into.

He's a fool.

Such an _idiotic fool._

He avoided the gaze of his teacher, unable to make eye contact as he was suddenly captivated with shame. His cold hands were shaking, a result of his mind over-running itself; thoughts coming and going in such unbearable speeds.

Although, his mind was momentarily distracted by an interrupting hand placing itself on his shoulder. (They both overlooked the harsh flinch as the hand made contact with him.) He practically had no choice but to look back into his teacher's eyes, as if driven by habit.

(He didn't really know if he regretted it or not.)

Once he made eye contact, he saw something akin to pity, but far more soothing and gentle than it actually was.

Perhaps a pitying eye was what he wanted.

But, somehow, he felt _worse._

He was a thread away from breaking the silent interaction, but an overwhelming amount of warmth accommodating itself around him beat him to it. He wasn't so overly indulged within his train of thoughts to not be aware and realize that this was a _hug._

_And it was scorching._

But it didn't hold a _torch_ when compared to her next words.

"I'm sorry."

...

"Eh?"

"I have no right to ask what's wrong. I don't really think I have the right."

_What are you talking about? It is I who is not __privileged._

"Whatever you're holding inside, it's fine if you let it out."

_I can't do that. No… It'd just be plain selfish. __Please don't say that._

"I don't know what's happening, but you have so many friends."

_I know._

"W-We all care for you, Conan."

He felt something warm and wet fall onto his shoulder.

**Tears.**

"Please don't hurt yourself."

_Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!_

He hopelessly felt his own tears return as he heard the soft and quiet sobs leave the woman hugging him.

Honestly, no matter how you see it, she was crying **be**c**a**u**se** o**f hi**m.

_**Another one in despair.**_

He couldn't prevent yet another dear one's misery.

In fact, h**e cau**se**d it.**

_**Stupid.**_

It was ridiculous how much of a pain-magnet he was. Seriously, how could he not feel as though he were the cause of it all? He couldn't help wondering if anything would have happened if he weren't there at all, or _if things still would have gone down the way that it did. _

But he'd never know, now would he?

_Because death and agony seemed to follow him __everywhere._

Of course, it wasn't actually possible for him to be the cause for everything, but then again, attracting and/or running into trouble _daily_ wasn't normal all in itself.

Either way, it was quite clear he had caused this unfortunate upbringing of negative emotions.

_And, geez, did it __**hurt.**_

Having to ineluctably listen to his very own teacher _crumble_ with awful sounds growing in volume, it left him no choice but to let his tears run down his face.

It, too, was distressing to hear his companion have to struggle to _breathe._

_Shit…_

His attempt(s) to stifle, much less _stop_, his cries were so hopelessly futile.

He did what he could to gain some sort of control over his… _anything. _He tried biting his lips shut, but sobs came far too rapidly, and it was the same case with trying to manage any or all noise. He wanted to restrain the burning urge to return his teacher's embrace simply because his morality told him to, but "fate" had something else in mind. He fought to restrict and regulate the frequency of his shaking and breathing, the outcome becoming so very unsuccessful. He even strived to contain his overbearing, _filthy_ emotions within a solemn expression, but the mere thought of success was _delusive._

_(Oh, they were far from alone as well.)_

Even the three children outside couldn't help their very own cries, only relying on a hand over their lips to suppress sobs. Haibara would have liked to comfort the children more than she was capable at the moment, but how could she do anything when she could hardly withhold her anguish over the fact that _the bravest person she knew was breaking down before her, and all she could do was __**listen.**_

What was worse was that they all knew, adult and children alike, that his mental breakdown was not one of _relief._ It was almost _funny_ how far it was from that, it didn't even come _close. _

Oh, it was just an _outburst of stress. _It wouldn't lessen the situation of its weight in the _sl__**ig**__ht__**es**__t._

They didn't know if it shortened or heightened their boldness.

The amount of agony you experience with just a _glance_ at a loved one's misery, realizing how much you were_ blind _to was so utterly... _incomprehensible. _It was an understatement to say it hurt like no other- that it was _painful_ that one could do _nothing_ but _listen _to the sounds of _unthinkable sadness, __all in __**secret. **_

It was worse knowing that Conan _trusted _them, but thought- _thinks_ that, even by telling them, it would do _**no**__t__**h**__i__**ng. **_It wouldn't _change a __**thing.**_

It hurt knowing, even as the boy lay limp and unconscious within their teacher's arms, that he was still _unwilling_ to tell them anything.

_That he wanted to keep it all to himself._

He didn't want **help.**

He's _willing_ to continue as is.

_Inclined_ to bear the burden as many times as he sees fit.

Hell if they'll let him.

It was a declaration they promised to keep, but they would need to add someone else within their group of people-who-are-more-than-willing-to-care-for-Conan. Such as his very own _guardian(s). _They needed to inform a certain female teenager (and her father) of her Responsibility's current condition and/or situation.

Plus, figuring the "child" most likely didn't want the Mouri's to be informed of his prevailing position, much less so bluntly, they had all coincidentally came to a mutual understanding that this whole ordeal will be sustained for until Conan wakes up. Ms. Kobayashi was also well-aware of the fact that it was her duty to report the events that had happened and _are presently_ happening at the moment to his guardians, but as a person, she finds it more beneficial if the "kid" confronted his own caretakers. She'd personally escort him home, therefore he wouldn't have any form of escape, she wouldn't let him avoid the situation or prolong the inevitable, better to confront it now rather than later.

Not wanting to risk any chances with the boy, Ms. Kobayashi didn't bother moving an inch and/or shifting to a more comfortable spot for either of them. She remained seated on her knees with him in her arms and his head resting on her shoulder. She most definitely didn't want to bother him, but the position doesn't disconcert her, just the soft sounds of her student's breathing and beating heart was enough for her. The red staining her clothes and body were nothing but mild inconveniences.

He needed the rest whatever the circumstances were because he was soon to be faced with the burden of trying to explain his troubling story to his guardians _and _parents.

His friends outside, continuously sobbing, also knew of this predicament, so they stood where they were, unmoving. They cried their hearts out, being absolutely agitated with their _obliviousness. _Whether their hope dimmed or not was beside the point as they were far more _determined_ than before. Witnessing their best friend in misery (Conan, no less!) was both a sight and sound neither of them wished to think of as reality.

But they had no choice but to _accept it._

Conan's suffering was _existent._

_And they wanted to __**ex**__t__**i**__n__**g**__u__**ish**__ every last __**ounce of pain**__ he held._

Even with events that seemed and probably were impossible, they all kept their minds running with thoughts as such, time flying past them until it was the afternoon in which school let out. Fortunately, there seemed to be a substitute for Ms. Kobayashi's class not long after she left, keeping any students from going too out of control and disorderly.

Perhaps that was the case there, but the same couldn't be said for some people roaming within or around the male's restroom, especially for a specific cowlicked boy. Although, "disorderly" wouldn't be the correct wording for the fellow resting in her arms, and neither would "_unmanageable."_ Maybe "turbulent" and "adamant?" It didn't matter, it was quite obvious he was _not okay._

Hell, even the Detective Boys were far quieter than you'd ever expect their group of seven-year-olds to be. Would the proper label for them be worried, concerned? Well, yes, but they were more _anxious_ than anything. They already dreaded possibly knowing what on Earth is causing their precious companion to _**cut**_ since it must to be pretty darn _horrible _to downgrade someone like _Conan._

It must be _a__**ppa**__l__**l**__i__**ng.**_

And Haibara? She was trying to make sense of it all. Speculating, contemplating, _pondering_ over a number of reasons and ways for as to _how_ his bearings could've escalated to a degree of this level, same goes for _why._

The possibilities were endless. A great number of things have occurred, and even more possibly had without any of them knowing. Plus, it could've just been a problem of _too much happening at once._

She was beyond frustrated.

He was going to explain as much as he could without her very own _support. _She most likely wasn't going to be there when he was _compelled to tell his story._ She, too, honestly believes no one will even _understand_ the position he's in in the first place. That likely theory was devastating.

She really just wanted him to wake up to tell them _any available information_, but she simultaneously wished he didn't gain consciousness so he wouldn't have to go through... _whatever _he was going through.

_And he did wake up._

The children all peeked over the edge as soon as they heard both Hairbara and their teacher lightly gasp. Then and there, they watched as their dearest friend's eyes became known to the world once more, the alluring blue in the orbs still remained throughout any dilemma, they mused. And, for a split second, they all silently beamed in delight, only to despair one more time at the thought of "explanation time." They were positive Conan wouldn't appreciate having to spell out his problems. Especially taking into mind that he tried _so hard_ to keep it hidden _and_ he really must dread having to discuss this with _Ran, _a person they all knew he loved beyond the bounds of words.

So, they bunched up into a kind-of hug (the four of them), as if reassuring themselves of each other's undying support and care for both each other _and_ Conan.

Conan's eyelids slowly, but surely, lifted itself up entirely, having him staring blankly at his teacher as she shifted their position until she was holding him like that of a baby. They made direct eye-contact, dark brown ones staring down into a dignifying hue of blue. She had her gaze fixated on him, not able to remove it from a color that seemed far more sacred than the ocean, it was _lavishing_ and she aspired to not see it go away in a gruesome manner.

Not even two seconds later did the confusion become visibly apparent in the detective's appearance, but who could blame him? He'd just woken up to find his head being rested against the inner elbow of his teacher's arm. His eyes only grew wider as he felt more distressed when seeing her almost pitying stare.

Then it hit him.

How he'd broken down right in front of her, how far he had fallen right then and there to the point where he _fell asleep. _How _**pa**__t__**h**__e__**tic.**_

"**Being yourself? Absurd."**

He tried with all his might to keep his face neutral. He was _ashamed- _yes_,_ but shouldn't that be the most of it?

"**This is exactly what you deserve."**

He looked down, expression remaining unchanged as he avoided anyone's ogling, wishing he could avert his own scrutiny.

"**Eradicate yourself inside, out."**

Sensing such unnerving chills towards the atmosphere of the room, Ms. Kobayashi sought to destroy it, at least momentarily.

"You know, I'm going to have to tell your parents." His shoulder automatically twitched. (He bashed himself for it.) "But I won't do it over the phone, I don't think that's very appropriate for now." He chose this as an opportunity to return his line of sight toward the adult above him. Without breaking eye contact, he also picked this moment to sit up on his own, using his knees as support as he was feeling slightly nauseated. He then, reluctantly, nodded his head in understanding, also proving to her he was at least listening.

"**Fake."**

"Come on, school ended a while ago." The pair stood (Conan lifting his jeans in the meanwhile), wiping access dust off their clothing as the younger stumbled a bit, his vision becoming quite foggy for a moment. Well, that was no surprise when considering the vast amount of blood he lost, the substance still pooling around on the floor. Ms. Kobayashi took his hand (having it be a strenuous task to disregard both the odor and color of the claret substance from below, but her resolve was set firm- whether she wanted to hurl or not wasn't essential at this point in time). Thankfully, there was an estimated supply of less than a pint on the floor, so he'd probably just suffer from dizziness, not anything necessary for an ER since the blood had stopped from the pressure and care she had given it earlier (nice going). She supported him with the hand she held, thankful for being able to do this much for now.

Exiting the room, the two were drawn as witnesses to the others' spying. The culprits weren't bothered by it in the least, in fact, they had intentionally stayed put so they would be seen. They didn't feel as though they had the _right _to leave without being known, it felt _gross- _as if it were the equivalence of the actions of a **murderer.** So, they braced themselves for lecturing, a comment, a sigh, _anything._

...

_Nothing happened._

Conan briefly glanced in their direction, indicating a small sign of acknowledgment just in case they assumed he was ignoring them or something as absurd as that. It wasn't a display of any superficial asperity either, just a sign of the clear fact that he was aware of their actions.

Even so, it wasn't that evident whether he was upset or not. Actually, throughout this whole ordeal, his expression never seemed to falter. It was unnerving just how much he resembled that of a _doll. _Fortunately, the noticeable display of fidgeting hands- fingers scratching at his own skin- brought the thought down a bit as he was still clearly human. Evidently troubled as well. (Why wouldn't he be?)

Although, already not having any control over the situation, it was still unsettling not even being able to _comprehend_ what was going to happen if no more of his emotions were to show. Everything was just so _stoic,_ they were robbed of their privileges in anticipation. It was worse recalling what had occurred not too long ago.

Everything was both discouraging and _uncomfortable._

_It was __**not**__ a good sign._

"**Insignificant."**

Conan pointed his line of vision straight forward, fighting with all he had to resist the tempting urges to just look at the ground, _but he didn't want __**ev**__e__**r**__yt__**hi**__n__**g**__ to __**sh**__o__**w. **_He needed to steel himself up so he could be _prepared. _He didn't want to expose himself much at this moment because he knew the _**vul**__n__**er**__a__**bi**__li__**ty **_later would crush him_\- and there was __**no escape. **_

So, he stayed put, just as the rest of the people present did, and it felt as though the space around them had changed; it was so cold and _fresh, _but none of them seemed able to _breathe properly._ It was as though all of them were waiting for someone to do _something… __**anything.**_

Minutes had gone by so unbearably slow, and it startled them all as soon as they heard a simple,

_\- Plop -_

_It was the sound of something preferably wet falling onto the floor._

And it came from Conan.

He decided then that, maybe, it was fine to hide his eyes, to harden his line of sight directly onto the floor so as to not "bother" anyone with such a pitiful spectacle that was himself.

Oh, how he _hated_ observing eyes.

His figure itself was quite adamant about persevering a reticent form, unwilling to abandon the slumped, but- simultaneously- stiff physique. His arms lay at his sides, hands meeting up to pinch at each other, and even as they saw this, his expression remained a mystery. Even so, there was definitely a difference; an addition to his face.

_A tear._

More begun to fall, but they still had yet to justify whether or not he was aware of it.

Well, if he was aware, they supposed he just gave up hiding it before even trying.

"**So revolting."**

Of course, they couldn't have- as stated earlier- comprehended this outcome due to a rather stoic expression remaining on their buddy's face. Either way, they were definitely caught off-guard, but they all chose to say nothing because they didn't know _what_ to say or _if_ there was anything to say at all. In the meanwhile, though, each of them fought the imminent lump and tingling sensation crawling at their throats, especially Conan himself, but he was rather the worst at it.

"**Having to set eyes on you is already bad enough as it is."**

After a few moments, Ms. Kobayashi eventually spoke in the softest tone she could muster, but still managed to notice the inconspicuous tensing of the younger's shoulders that caused her to internally wince as well.

"Would you like to hold hands?" She suggested, only to be immediately turned down with a swift shake of the head. She tried not taking it to heart with how instantaneous his answer was, but that only influenced her concerns on his refusal.

'_Physical contact is a no, huh?'_

In due time, the group of six silently walked outside the building and onto the sidewalk, feeling as though a thousand swords were threatening them from above, ready to slice them all without mercy if they even stuttered an ungrateful word out loud. They didn't risk it, perhaps silence was preferrable in situations such as these.

Maybe.

As they came to a certain intersection, Haibara, without verbalizing anything, ushered the children off to their own respective homes. Thankfully, they obliged quite easily (although, a bit reluctantly), their energy most likely too low to argue any further.

As they started the path to return home, Haibara was already contemplating her options here. She could go back to Agasa's house as well, leaving Conan to deal with the situation with the small guidance of their teacher, or she can linger as extra support in case her companion would deem it useful.

Everything was already so exhausting as it is, she didn't need to stress so much over a trivial wager. But as it was, it _wasn't_ trivial, and she wasn't in the position to accurately depict any of Conan's wants or needs, she'd have to hear it for herself because one could not delineate such a person's preferable benefits over mere_ speculations._

It wasn't justifiable in the least.

Coming to that conclusion, she decided to take the risk against the pressure of the atmosphere and vocalize her question.

"Edogawa-kun," she couldn't ignore the slightly hazy look in his eyes. "Would you rather I leave or stay?" No beating around the bush, saying anything at all already felt like thousands of leeches, worms, and more parasites were having a shot at her intestines.

…

"Uh, n-no? You can go…" (He didn't mention that he would appreciate it if there were fewer eyes directed at him.)

Sure, the answer wasn't quite the one she would've liked for it to be (and it took a while to receive it too, but better late than never, right?), but who was she kidding? She wasn't expecting any more than a blatant reply of rejection, but it still brought her spark of hope she hadn't realized was previously held to whither along with her false sense of optimism.

With that note, she turned around (with a suppressed face of disappointment) and walked away leisurely, as if savoring the lasting time of her and the tiny detective's close proximately to represent some sign of encouragement.

Ms. Kobayashi didn't speak a word in the duration of this time, only glancing at the younger's retreating form for a while before continuing with the walk shared with another one of her students.

'_Down to two.'_

In the span of the time towards the course to the Mouri's agency, the weather was all fine and _dandy. _The area shining in such a mesmerizing way, it was _hideous. _The day felt like midnight, the light beating them down to impossible lengths, but they still couldn't ignore this unnerving chill constantly running long heights in and across their bodies without the cessation of brutal hostility. It felt as though the sun was ruthlessly _mocking_ every essence of their being, down to the mood transpiring between them to the core of their hearts.

Almost as if they're experiencing first-hand what it felt like to be _burned inside, out._

For whatever lies at the center of their twisted desires, they found the sight of such a tranquil space around; pastel blue colored sky with a few petals here and there, to be intolerable.

Perhaps a dark and shady day of rain would be better.

To Ms. Kobayashi, she disliked the graceful sight because it felt isolating to be incapable of feeling what's on the other side. She felt secluded from the willing peace _in front of her._ She wanted so badly to be a part of it and just soak in all the good and throw away the bad. She couldn't, though.

Wasn't allowed entry for evident reasons.

As for Conan? He was _**livid.**_ Okay, yes, these emotions were brought up by the weather and its serenity, but he couldn't possibly be angry at the phenomenal scenery, no, he was furious towards himself. Feeling as though it was a law to be one with the nifty semblance, he felt _wrong. _He was doing the unthinkable, he was an absolute downer, he was supposed to be "that", _not this. _He had to show anything but _himself. _**Un**a**c**ce**pta**b**l**e, he couldn't be any less than that. But how could he ever sum himself up to the equivalence of "that"? _He couldn't. (Not after all he's done.)_

A **dis**g**r**ac**e.**

_A forever __**"disappointment."**_

His breath hitched.

(He really wished he would've taken the shower this morning.)

They arrived at their destination.

_Oh._

_They're here._

"**So arrogant."**

…

"**What's the next step, hotshot?"**

…

"**Nothing?"**

He slowly stalked up the stairs alongside the other, disregarding the trembling of his hands.

_Not now._

"**Heh,"**

_Not now!_

"**How…"**

_Damn it, not now!_

Knocks sounded all around, sending vigorous chills down his spine as he withheld a gag.

_Run! Run! Run!_

"**Pretentious."**

...

The door opened.

He kept his gaze at the floor.

_Please, no more__** pained faces.**_

* * *

_Okay, forgive me, for I have done a crime to all of you following up on this story. I am the exact opposite of most people out there. So many speak of being incapable of updating their stories because school has them too occupied to be bothered, but I actually need school (apparently) to "encourage" my... motivation(?) I tend to write far more during the period I am in school since (if I'm constantly at home) I'd just continue to read otherwise. (I'm a total slut for books.)_

_Anyway, hopefully, I will update regularly now (which is probably just once a month (sorry, not sorry))._

_Oh, and I really count on you readers to accurately depict what the bolding of words indicate (or have relation to the mind). It shouldn't be that hard. :D_


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